The Ruins of Gorlan?
by Falcon97
Summary: I've pretty much re-written the Ruins of Gorlan, chapter by chapter. When Moranate the Lord of the Really Wet Mountains Which Are Also Really Dark is foiled in a dastardly attempt to take of the kingdom of Araluuuuen he plots his revenge. Armed with deadly Gargals and Kalykara who can stand against him? Rated K
1. Of Sulky Villains

**Just this random idea I had when re-reading the Ruins of Gorlan. Hopefully I'll be able to have enough ideas to sustain me all the way through the Ruins of Gorlan as I'd ideally like to re-write all the chapters...I'll just have to see how it goes. **

**Read on an enjoy :D**

**N/B: I re-uploaded this chapter due to some blindingly obvious typos I hadn't had the chance to edit before. I did add a few extra words here and there as well XD Sorry for any other typos, a few always get away when I'm proof reading stuff -_-**

**This chapter is dedicated to Savannah Silverstone for being my first reviewer, thanks!**

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Moranate, Lord of the Really Wet Moutains Which Are Also Really Dark and former Baron of Gory Fief in the Kingdom of Araluuuuen, looked out over his windy crib and for the 1000000002347th time cursed (which has been censored for the convenience of the audience).

It had been fifteen years since he had been booted out of Araluuuuen and made to rule over this place. Gory Fief had been beautiful, green fields...forests...rainbows...marshmallows... The Really Wet Moutains Which Are Also Really Dark was a desolate place compared to the beauty of Gory Fief.

It had been fifteen years since he'd been booted out of Gory Fief and shoved into the Really Wet Mountains Which Were Also Really Dark, but he could still remember the beauty of Gory Fief. The streams had been full of water and fish, and the forests which with game (mainly checkers and scrabble). But these mountains were desolate and empty.

A platoon (which is another word for group) of Gargals were drilling in the courtyard below. For a few moments Moranate watched them wielding the power tools whilst chanting _Gangham Style _in Korean for the chorus they would all pause the do the dance then resume drilling.

They were strange mishappen beings, one-third hamster, one-third labrador and one-tenth human (no-one was to sure what the rest of them was). The Gargals had avoived all contact with humans (which was a wise move) and had lived all this time in the Really Wet Mountains. No one in living or dead memory had set eyes on them but rumours and stories had remained of the tribes of hemi-semi-demi-intelligent beasts in the mountains.

Moranate, planning a really evil rebellion, had snuck out of his castle in the middle of the night and set off to find them. It had taken him a really, really, really long time to find the beasts, (mainly because he kept on turning right instead of left) but he'd found them.

The Gargals relied on a primitive form of mind communication, not speaking any langauge. When marching or working they would chant _Gangham Style _in Korean, a phenomena that would baffle scientists in centuries to come. As a result of this they were susceptible to to domination by a superior intelligence and willpower, Moranate soon bent them to his will and they become his backside-kicking army of doom.

Now, as he stared at them, he compared them to the knights in sparkly armour at Castle Gory and their ladies dressed in silk dresses cheering them on as they competed in tounaments. Comparing them to the pink and purple furred creatures he cursed for the 1000000002348th time.

The Gargals attune to his emotions through his thoughts, sensed his anger and paused in the Gangham Styling and drilling. Angrily he directed them back to the drilling and the Gangham Styling resumed.

Morgarath moved away from the double glazed window, and shuffled closer to ye olde medieval radiator that seemed incapable of raising the temperature in the room above 30 degrees F.

Fifteen years, he thought pouting and crossing his arms. Fifteen years since he'd tried to kick the newly crowned King Duncan, a youth in his twenties, off the throne. He had planned it really well, the awesomeness and sheer evilness of his plan had blown him away; the old king's sickness had progressed enabling him to gradually take control and split the other barons apart and then enable him to seize the throne.

In secret he'd trained up his Garagls, massing them up in the emountains, ready for the king's death as the barons went over to Castle Araluuuuen for the funeral, leaving the armies with no-one to lead them. They he'd struck. Within a few days 39.556594806548964567% of the kingdom was his.

Duncan had been young and inexperienced and couldn't have stuck it out against him. The throne had been his! Or so the thought...

Then Olde Lorde North'olde, the olde supreme army commander had got some younger barons into a loyal confederation, partly bribing them with marshmallows. This gave strength to Duncan and his other supporters and the armies had met at Hack'em Heath, close by the Slippy River, and the battle had swayed in the balance for roughly five hours with attack and counterattack and attack and counterattack and attack and counterattack and attack and counterattack. The Slippy was a shallow river but the quicksand and wetsand and dampsand along with the mud had formed an impossibly impassible barrier protecting the right side of Morgarath's army.

But then one of the grey-green-brown cloaked medlers known as the Grangers of Awesomeness led a force of heavy calvary (like really, really heavy) across a secret ford a really, really long way up stream. The horsemen and horses had appeared at the crucial moment then galloped in slow motion towards Morgarath's army with epic battle music playing and then routed them.

The Gargals were naturally terrified of horses and battle music and so turned tail and legged it back to the Really Wet Moutains Which Are Also Really Dark. Moranate went with them (he didn't like battle music either) and he had been in the mountains for these fifteen years. Waiting, plotting and hating the men who had done this to him (though he did kinda bring it on himself).

Now, he thought, with an evil laugh, it was time for his revenge (bad guys really do like revenge don't they?). His ninja spies of doom had told him the Kingdom was growing slack and complacent and his presence was all but forgotten. The name of Moranate was a legend now, a name mothers used to make their children eat broccoli and cauliflower.

The time was ripe. Once again he'd lead his hinney-kicking army of Gargals into an attack. But this time he would have allies. And this time, he would cause confusion before hand (just to make sure). This time there wouldn't be anyone left alive to aid King Duncan.

For the Gargals weren't the only evil, creepy, creatures of doom in the Really Wet Moutains Which Are Also Really Dark, he had two other allies, even more evil and doomy, the dreadful beasts known as...the Klankykara.

The time was ripe to unleash them.

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**Please leave a review and tell me what you think, hopefully I can get the next chapter up within the month :/ **


	2. Of Nerves and Wards

**I struggled a bit with this chapter so I'm a bit critical of it at the moment :/ See what you think...**

**Thanks to Savannah Silverstone, BlackPanther101, IFYOUCOULDFLY, Dash99, Icestorm238, Sleeping Kangaroo and Tessi for reviewing the first chapter (or prologue, whatever) much appreciated :D**

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'Eat the flippin' food! Do you have any idea how long it took to prepare this stuff?!'

Jenny, blonde haired, blue eyed and wearing an insane amount of kohl eyeliner along with a rough, studded leather jacket, scowled at Will and jerked her hand in the direction of the massive plate of food before Will.

Will smiled weakly and nibbled a pea before placing it down on the plate half-eaten. His stomach felt like it was tied up in a series of knots, hitches and braids due to the tension and anticipation he felt (meaning he was nervous).

Tomorrow was "Pick An Apprentice Day" the most important even in Will's life so far (next to winning a stuffed rabbit at a fair) where a Craftmaster choose an apprentice, this would determine how he would spend the rest of his life.

'I envisage that the nervous psychological state your are currently experiencing is rendering you unable to consume any amount of food,' said George chucking his loaded spoon over his shoulder as he grabbed the lapels of his jacket in a manner that made him look very wise. He was thin, gangly and loved a good debate, the problem is most people couldn't understand what he was saying most of the time, 'A dire thing nerves don't you agree? It quite restricts and freezes you, so you can't think, eat or speak.'

The group of teens sat quietly for a few moments mentally translating this speech, 'I'm not nervous,' Will said eventually realising that George had said.

Horace snorted sounding like a horse.

George nodded vigorously, his hair flying up and down, eyeballs joggling in their sockets, 'However, viewed from another starkly contrsting position, a person who is experiencing a state of nerves can find their performance improved quite drastically. Nerves can highten your perceptions and awareness, sharpen your reflexes and speed. The fact you are somewhat nervous - or not - is not a matter which you youself should be worried about, so to speak.'

Another silence descended whilst the wards translated this speech.

'Well,' muttered Horace shoving a massive leg of turkey into his mouth, 'he should be totally freaked around now; I mean, dude, seriously you are so goin dooooown.'

Alyss rose to her feet her dress billowing out behind her, her dandruff-free, grease-free blonde hair gracefully tumbling down over her shoulders giving off the scent of DoveTM strawberry shampoo. In a voice that sounded like a chorus of really nice, alto-pitched instruments, playing in a charming D#, she said, 'Ah Will, (my potential love interest) I am sure that all of us are nervous, we would twerps not to be.'

'I'm not,' snorted Horace.

Alyss raised a single elegantly plucked eyebrow (starting off a long-standing tradition that would continue through all the books) and Jenny smirked and then hastily reapplied her bright red lipstick which was beginning to loose a little of it's luster.

Will thought that it was typical of Alyss (his potential love interest) to resolve an argument. The insert some nice comment about Alyss' figure here girl had been promised a place as an apprentice by Lady Pauline who was head of Castle Pinkmont's Smart and Intelligent People Service.

Jenny would naturally want to become a cook, her ladle-wacking skills were far beyond anyone else's which would put her in good standing. Chef Chubby was Pinkmont's top chef and was renowned as being the most awesomest ladle wacker to walk the earth. Jenny's (not so) easy going manner and (not so) unfailing good humour and (not so) happy demeanour would make her a good asset to Pinkmont's kitchens as Chef Chubby was always on the look-out for steely eyed and brained chefs.

Backside-Kicking School would be Horace's choice. Will glanced over at Horace who had demonlished and turkey and now moved onto a cow's leg, potatos and ham, scorning any food that was non-starchy or non-meaty. Horace was tall for his age with muscles that rippled every time he moved and made teenage girls scream and faint in his wake. Horace was the perfect Backside-Kicking recruit. Strong, fit, good hairdo. Sir Rodknee would not refuse him.

Which left lil' 'ol Will. What would he choose? Naturally he wanted to become a Backside-Kicking School recruit and take after his deceased father (who may or may not have been a knight).

Horace stared at Will across the table, 'Ofobobo bodogooo Obo, ogoiwoihooooieofofofooo,' he said around a mouthful of potatoes.

'Eh?' asked Alyss, her harmonic voice making even that single monosyllable sound musical.

'Ugh,' said Jenny and readjusted her make-up.

George, who spoke excellent food-speak translated, 'He says that Will needs to build himself up if he wants to apply for Backside-Kicking School.'

Horace smirked around his potatoes provoking another "ugh" from Jenny.

Will scowled at Horace so ferociously that the daisies in the vase in front of him shriveled up and died.

Horace and Will were constantly fighting with one another verbally or physically, the whole "wardmates must stand together and hold hands around a campfire whilst singing cheesy songs" didn't always get pulled off in Castle Pinkmont.

'You need serious guns to get into Backside-Kicking School man,' said Horace, flexing his biceps to prove the point and provoking an "oooh" from Jenny, 'real muscles,' he finished pleased his statement.

'Are there any other,' muttered Will as Horace looked around to see whether any of his fellow wardmates agreed with him.

The other wards quickly struck up a conversation about pink rabits, a natural reaction to the growing tension in the room.

'Especially between your ears,' put in Will who had a store of witty remarks that he kept ready to produce at a moments notice.

Jenny smirked at this which irritated Horace. The muscular boy rose from his seat with a rippling of his muscles but was to late as Will legged it out of the room, elegantly vaulting over a table without cracking his shins on the edge. Horace paused for a moment trying to think of a suitable insult to throw at the rapidly retreating form. Eventually he came up with one:

'Yeah, run away Will no-middle and no-surname! You've got no surname or middle name so no-one is gonna want you!'

(You can really see the blossoms of the epic bromance which will begin in later chapters emerging here can't you?)

Outside Will's puppy-like brown eyes grew even more puppy-like and mournfull. It was the comment that stung the most. Whilst all the other wards at Pinkmont knew something about their parents he knew nothing about his. Will had been found outside Castle Pinkmont one night in a beer crate with a name attacked to his blanket reading:

_His Mother died in childbirth,_

_His Father died a Hero,_

_Please care for him (cause I don't really want him at the moment),_

_His name is Will (spelt W-I-L-L ) _

Baron A'rald had been a kindlyish man behind his fearsome demeanour and had set up an orphange in Castle Pinkmont for those children who had been orphaned in his fief.

It seemed logical to assume that, if the note was true, that Will's father had died in the war against Moranate and since Baron Barald had taken a leading part in the war he felt that he should honour Will's father's sacrifice.

So Will had become one of the wards at Castle Pinkmont, gradually others had come until there were five in his year group. However, they all had memories of their parents or at least people who knew them. Will however, new nothing of his past.

He therefore invented a story about his father when he was little until he'd come to actually believe it was true himself.

His father had died as a hero. So it made sense that he would picture his father as a knight (maybe) cutting his way through loads of Gargals (believable ish) until he was eventually taken down by the sheer numbers of the creatures (that sounds reasonable).

As a backside-kicking warrior his father (who may or may not have been a knight) would have wanted him to go to Backside-Kicking School to follow in his footsteps. That was why it was so important for Will to go there.

Will exited the Ward building and went into the dark castle yard enter interesting description of dark castle yard here

He hesitated and decided not to go back to the ward to face Horace's taunts.

Instead he decided to climb a tree (as you do).

In the dark (health and safety rules didn't really matter that much back then).

So he climbed a tree in the dark and didn't die even though the smaller branches at the top of the tree bended under his weight.

Looking down on the castle yard he saw Alyss step out and look around for him, her voice in an echoing D# called for him as she looked around, eventually she shrugged and disapeared back inside leaving Will to meditate on how people don't really ever look up (which is wise as you never know when a random bird may decide to fly overhead and poop).

There was a rustle of feathers and Will turned to see a barn owl land on the branch next to him.

'At least you know who you are,' he said softly to the bird.

The bird eyed him for a moment then with a fearsome screech attacked Will who let out a stream of censored words. The barn owl screeched again and then flew off into the night leaving Will sitting in the branch looking somewhat puzzled, 'Why me?' he asked pitifully.

There was a sudden crack and the branch which Will was sitting on shattered in two, he let out a high-pitched scream which would rival a girls and then realized that he wasn't actually falling, having just dropped a few centimeters onto another, stronger branch below him.

(Let us take a moment to learn from Will's mistake of climbing too high up a tree and almost breaking his neck which would have then meant no Ranger's Apprentice books and no awesome Halt moments and no weird pairings for Will and no angsty "let's-beat-up-Will" fanfics).

Clearing his throat and trying to gather back up his composure, Will slowly climbed back down the tree and made his way to his bed in the boy's dormitory in the Ward.

**_And here ends Chapter One._**

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**So, please leave a review and tell me what you think :D **

**The next chapter may be a little while longer coming due to my internet usage being restricted XD**


	3. Of Craftmasters, Barons and Martini

**Chapter II is now up! celebrates by dancing to Psy (actually that's not a celebration, that's torture...) Thanks to Savannah Silverstone, Dash99, Sleeping Kangaroo, Icestorm238, Blackpanther101 and Xayhra for reviewing the previous chapter, cookies for you :) **

**Thanks for your suggestion Xayhra, I like it :D**

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Martini watched with narrowed eyes, his arms folded across his chest as the young wards slowly filed into the room, they narrowed even further until he could hardly see as they formed a shambling line, 'Alright yew 'orrible lot!' he roared at the top of his lungs, 'Git yurselves in proper 'eight order and jump to it!'

Martini watched with obvious satisfaction as the teens scrambled to do his bidding. Martini was a short man and didn't cut a very impressive figure but what he lacked in height and stature he made up for in voice.

Horace being the tallest stood at the top of the line with Alyss next to him (who, even when just standing, managed to look irritatingly fantastic). Next came George who was 469/1000ths of a head shorter than Alyss (he'd measured the difference two days ago). Which left Will and Jenny.

The two stood there for a few moments eyeing one another. Not daring to break eye contact. Not daring to move. Jenny's eyes narrowed. A muscle jumped in Will's cheek. Horace, George and Alyss leaned forward slightly in anticipation. Even Martini looked fascinated by the mental battle taking place.

Eventually Jenny leaned in closer to Will, 'I'm taller,' she said through gritted teeth.

Will's throat bobbed as he swallowed nervously, 'Right,' he squeaked, his voice coming out several octaves higher than usual, 'you're taller.'

Jenny nodded slowly, 'Yes, I am aren't I?'

Will breathed quiet sigh of relief as Jenny retreated to the line, sometimes it was best not to argue with her, she usually kept a hardwood ladle somewhere about her person and to provoke her to reveal it was certain doom.

'Right then you lot,' bellowed Martini, back in charge, 'I will not have any lollergaging or slouching in the line, straighten yerselves up and stand to attenshun'!'

'I really don't think that is necessary Martini.'

It was Baron Barald who had spoken. He had snuck into the room through a series of winding passageways and secret doors before appearing in his chair which ascended through the floor using a clever system of pulleys. To add to the effect a puff of sparkly smoke filled the area where he was sitting. This provoked a coughing fit from Baron Barald who had inhaled some glitter (let this be a lesson to us: inhaling glitter is bad for your health).

At this dramatic appearance from Barald, Martini leaped to attention, 'Candidates at the ready sir!' he said, a little too loudly for Baron Barald's taste.

The Baron sighed deeply and rolled his eyes which were a little lost under his bushy eyebrows. He had a long, flowing and voluminous beard which, it was often rumoured, he used for storing various food items.

'Candidates are awaiting the craftmasters sir!' roared Martini, Barald winced as the volume set his ears ringing.

'Right then,' he rose to his feet and flung out his arms, 'BRING FORTH THE CRAFTMASTERS!' he bellowed dramatically.

'Sir, yes sir!' said Martini clicking his heels, the volume he managed to muster was quite impressive and drew a few admiring glances from the wards. As Martini marched over to the door and seized hold of the handle the Baron said quickly, 'Please don't bellow at them,' his previous secretary had made that mistake and had promptly found himself lying flat out of the floor with a Sir Rodknee-sized fist shape on his chin.

Martini looked a little worried, he was aware of what had happened the previous time and was also aware of the rumours that Lady Pauline wore stilletos and was trained to use them in combat. He was also aware of Chef Chubby's ladle skills. And of Nigel's tendency to get irritated and talk someone half to death. He glanced warily at the door and then cautiously pulled it open, wincing as it creaked.

In soft, hushed tones, he addressed the assembled men and woman, 'The Baron is now ready,' before hastily pulling back and retreating to the far side of the room.

[**Desciption of Craftmasters and their physical appearance etc. which I can't be bothered to do happens]**

'The craftmasters are ready sir,' whispered Martini once the group were assembled.

Baron Barald nodded patiently and walked over to them, 'GOOD MORNING!' he boomed, he turned to Lady Pauline, 'How's it going?' and then the men, ''Sup guys?'

There was a general muttering of "sup" from the men accompanied by the shuffling of feet and a smile and curtsey from Lady Pauline who was more "with it" on occasions such as this.

'Okay then,' said Baron Barald turning to Martini with a swirling of his robes, 'shall we do this thing or what?'

Martini paced along the line of wards, a wolfish smile on his face, 'Now then,' he grunted, 'which of you sorry lot is first?'

Sir Rodknee raised his eyebrows, he was beginning to wish that he'd considered Martini for Backside-Kicking School, he would have made a fantastic drill-master.

There was another general shuffling of feet and embarrassed coughs throughout the room as the wards all darted nervous glances at one another.

Will, staring intently at the ground suddenly became aware of a strange sensation, it was as if someone was watching him (or it could indigestion, it was sometimes hard to tell). Looking up he found himself staring into the eyes of [**pause for dramatic effect] **Halt the Granger.

Will gulped. Halt was a mysterious, shadowy figure, tales of sorcery surrounded the grangers and Will had believed some of them. Halt was an unnerving character, he had a tendency to appear when you least expected [**urm...yeah...I could write a few things about that but I won't...]**

The young man wondered why Halt was here today **(a moment of foreshadowing here) **as far as he was aware the Granger wasn't one of the crafmasters and he hadn't attended a Pick An Apprentice Day before now.

Abruptly, Halt's gaze cut away from him, it was as if a light had turned off.

Looking up, Will saw that ye olde 60e watte light bulb had one out.

Baron Barald frowned and muttered something uncomplimentary about lightbulbs under his breath before turning his attention back to Martini who was still prowling along the line of wards, preparing to single one out, 'Hows about we go for the first in line man?' he suggested.

Martini paused in his relentless movement and nodded slowly, 'Of course Baron,' he moved over to Horace and in a lot meanancing voice said, 'looks like your first sonny, get your backside outta the line.'

'Language,' sighed Baron Barald, momentarily forgetting his string of curses uttered earlier.

'Oh...right,' said Martini shooting a slightly embarrassed glance in Pauline's direction.

Horace shuffled forward out of the line.

The Baron eyed him for a few moments, 'Name dude?'

'Horace Antman, sir.'

'And what preference do you have Horace?' asked the Baron, though he could guess.

'Backside-Kicking School sir,' said Horace firmly.

The Baron looked momentarily deflated, he'd put Horace down as a cooking person.

Rodknee was studying Horace thoughtfully, assessing how suitable he would be for Backside-Kicking School.

'Backside-Kicking Master?' asked Baron Barald.

Sir Rodknee stepped forward to look more closely at Horace, his chain mail clinking, spurs clanking, helmet clonking, sword jangling. Rodknee's eye narrowed, tall, athletic, strong, nice-hairdo; he made a mental note to find out where Horace got his hair gel.

'He looks strong enough,' the knight said, 'I can always use new trainees,' he paused to scratch his armpit thoughtfully, 'Do you ride?'

A look of panic crossed Horace's face and he collapsed to the ground, 'No oh great one, but please I beg of you...'

'No matter,' said Sir Rodknee, seemingly oblivious to the grovelling teen, 'it can be taught easily enough.'

Horace froze, 'Oh,' he said quietly and hastily scrambled to his feet.

Sir Rodknee looked at the Baron and nodded, 'Very well, my lord, I will him for Backside-Kicking School, subject to the usual three-month probationary period.'

'Righto then,' responded Barald then paused, 'What does probationary mean?'

Rodknee looked a little puzzled, 'I dunno,' he looked around at the other craftmasters for help.

Ulf shrugged, Chubby was stroking his ladle and not really paying attention, Halt didn't look as if he could care less, Pauline sighed quietly wondering at the lack of education some people were receiving these days. Help came from Nigel who cleared his throat, 'Probationary (pr-bshn) coming from Old French _probabation_, from Latin _probatio_, from _probatus_, past participle of _probare_, _to test_; means a process or period in which a person's fitness, as for work or membership in a social group, is tested.'

'Oh, right,' said Barald looking somewhat bamboozled, he blinked then turned to the delighted looking Horace, 'Congratulations,' he said, 'report to Backside-Kicking School tomorrow morning at eight o' clock (GMT) sharp.'

'Thank-you oh great one,' Horace said reverently and bowed slightly to Rodknee.

The knight smiled and let out a low (slightly evil/demented) chuckle which filled the chamber, 'you don't know what you are in for...'

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**A/N Yay! I've finally finished the chapter! I was going to combine chapters two and three originally but I was taking so long to write out Chapter two that in the end I decided not to bother...**

**So all that remains for me to say is [takes a deep breath] RRRRRRREEEEEVVVVVIIIIIIEEEEEWWWWWW!**


	4. Of Scribes and Ladles

**Thanks for the reviews and favorites everyone! It's really appreciated, I'm surprised at the response I've got from all of you, I've never had so many reviews for just three chapters :D**

**Sorry for the delay in updating, I'm really sorry about that :(**

**Thanks to Alyss Mainwaring,** **Tessi, Ranger Robbin, Weeping Willow, BlackPanther101, Savannah Silverstone (did I mention that I think your user name is really cool?), Dash99 and Xayhra for reviewing the previous chapter, I'm really glad you're all enjoying it :)**

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'Right then,' bellowed Martini, making the glasses shake on a nearby table, 'who's next?'

'Ooh, ooh, ooh! I know I know!' yelped Ulf sticking his hand in the air and waving it around, 'it's the next one in line!'

Baron Barald nodded approvingly, his craftmasters were a bright lot.

With a toss of her billowing golden locks, Alyss stepped forward gracefully and in a smooth, gentle voice said, 'My name is Alyss Mainwearing, my Lord,' she said looking at Baron Barald, 'I request that I be put in the Smart and Intelligent People Service, please.'

The Baron stared a little open-mouthed at her for a few moments before clearing his throat and glancing at Lady Pauline.

The tall woman smiled, 'I've already spoken to her, my lord, I believe she will do well, femine charms work wonders on men when it comes to negotiations.'

All men in the room (apart from Halt who just continued to stand emitting an aura of mysteriousness) shuffled their feet and looked a little bit embarased.

Alyss smiled and curtsied to Lady Pauline. Will briefly meditated on how alike they looked, both tall (he suspected they both wore platform shoes), grave (yeah, like really _grave_ *pauses for laughter and is pelted with tomatoes*) and graceful (which is impressive if they do wear platform shoes).

**((oooh, RA theory here, maybe Pauline is Alyss' Mum! *silence* Yeah, okay, maybe not...back to the story!))**

Will felt a surge of pleasure for his potential love interest, knowing how much she had wanted to be in the Smart and Intelligent People Service.

Alyss, with another toss of her billowing locks stepped back into line.

Martini, not wanting to be forestalled this time was already pointing at George.

'You!' he boomed at the unfortunate teen, 'It's your turn to face your doom.'

Barald cleared his throat politely, 'Destiny, Martini, destiny.'

Martini shrugged.

George gulped, sweat dripping down his forehead and stepped out of the line and stood there, looking like a rabbit in the fire light. He opened and closed his mouth several times looking a little like a skinny puff-fish but couldn't seem to say anything. The other wards watched with interest. The craftmasters watched with interest. Martini watched with interest. A bird flew past the window and watched with interest.

George was overcome with...stage fright [insert scream of choice here].

Finally, (after a few moments of tense silence) George let out a mumble.

'What did he say?' asked Barald leaning forward and frowning.

George looked up at the Baron timidly, he took a deep breath and rubbed away a few rivulets of sweat trickling down his face then said, 'G-G-G-G-G-Geroge Carter, sir, I-I-I-I'd like to g-g-g-go tt-t-t-t-to s-s-s-s-s-scribeschool, sir.'

'Well G-G-G-G-G-Geroge Carter-'

'Sir,' interrupted Sir Rodknee lightly, 'I think it's just plain George.'

'Oh, right,' Barald looked a little embarrassed, 'fine then,' he glanced at Nigel and raised an eyebrow (seriously, what is it with this whole "raised an eyebrow" thing?).

'Perfectly acceptable my lord,' he paused for a moment then added: 'I have extensively viewed his work and find that he has a aptitude for calligraphy.'

The Baron frowned and looked doubtful, 'Yeah, but don't you think that the guy might fall down on making speeches and stuff. I mean it could be a problem if he needs to give a talk on money or laws or other boring stuff like that.'

Nigel looked a little miffed at having some of his interests called "boring" but then what would you expect? He sniffed and shrugged the suggestion away, 'I assure you, my lord, with the proper training regimen that sort of element presents no challenge. Absolutely no obstacles at all.'  
The scribe sank down to the floor and assumed a half-lotus position, looking very tranquil, 'I recall to my mind a young boy who joined us sometime ago, not dissimilar to the boy that stands before us now. He had a very unfortunate habit of mumbling, often we - when I say we, I mean myself and my work colleagues - could not make out any of what he was saying which was often a great difficulty...

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_Fifteen minutes later..._

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'...actually, you may all be very much surprised to hear that I was once a very nervous child, I would stutter and stammer my way through many sentences, it was very hard, my lord. I could barely put together two words at one time,' Nigel paused for a few moments to regain his breath and Baron Barlad seized the oppertunity to quickly cut in, 'Right, so you're gonna take him then?'

'Of course, my lord. Of course!'

'Thank goodness,' murmured the Baron under his breath.

Sir Rodknee let out an explosive sigh of relief, Ulf muttered a quick prayer of thanks, Lady Pauline continued to look calm and grave but seemed relieved, Chef Chubby smiled with satisfaction and dropped his hand away from his side where he had been fiddling with his ladle, clearly pondering whether or not to use it. The wards all looked relieved as well; their eyes un-glazed and they each shuffled their legs which had been on the verge of seizing up.

'Right then,' said Barald, he spun around to face George who was looking a little less freaked out, 'Right then dude, you'll report to the Scribeschool tomorrow, o'eight hundred hours sharp.'

George shuffled his feet and looked down at his boots, 'Mumble-mumble-mumble.'

'Eh?'

George looked up at the Baron, 'I said: mumble-mumble-mumble.'

'Oh, right,' the Baron was looking a little confused as the ward shuffled backwards into the line.

Martini leaped forward and into action, he'd been standing there in a sort-of trance whilst Nigel had been talking, now he was ready for some serious yelling.

'RIGHT THEN,' he roared at the top of his lungs, sending the burst ye olde 60e watte lightbulb shaking, 'NEXT ONE IN LINE: GET YOUR BEHIND OUT OF THE QUEUE!'

Jenny swaggered forward, her stilletos clicking and clacking on the stone floors, she looked down her nose, through a forest of mascara-coated eyelashes and sniffed in a somewhat disdainful manner.

Martini quailed somewhat under the teenager's piercing gaze and lowered his level of volume somewhat, 'So,' he paused and let out a dry cough, 'state your name.'

'Jennifer Dalby,' she said flatly, her expression changed and her voice became a little more respectful as she turned to face Chef Chubby, 'I'd like to be apprenticed to Chef Chubby.'

The Baron looked from Chef Cubby to Jennifer Dalby and then back again, he cleared his throat, 'Jenny...' he began.

'My name is Jennifer,' replied the teen coolly.

'Oh, right, yes, of course,' said Barald with a hint of nervousness in his voice, 'whatever made me say Jenny?' For a moment he was silent and re-gathered his thoughts then continued, 'Jennifer, would you care to prove your worth in being apprenticed to Chef Chubby.'

'If you don't mind,' broke in the chef with a firm voice, 'I think I will be the judge of that.'

Baron Barald quickly backed up seeing the dreaded hardwood ladle swinging from the chef's hand, it was noticeable that at the appearance of this implement the craftmasters all took a few subtle steps backwards. Halt was even wary of the might of the ladle, and dropped his hand down onto his saxe. Rumour had it that Chubby had his ladles made with steel then covered with a small veneer of wood.

Chef Chubby eyed up Jenny with a critical eye, he thought that it was a bit lax of the other craftmasters to accept their apprentices with no cross-examination.

'So then...girl, you think you can become my apprentice.'

'Yeah,' responded Jenny, though she was looking a little worried.

'Hmmm.'

Chef Chubby tapped his ladle against his chin for a few moments then adruptdly swung it down to his side, slapping it against his leg. All those assembled in the room flinched slightly (apart from Halt who doesn't really flinch being a Granger of Awesomeness).

'Tell me,' he began, 'how would you cook a turkey pie?'

'Urm...well I'd get some turkey and then cover it with pastry, and then put it in the oven.'

'Wow,' murmured Baron Barald looking at her open-mouthed, 'that's fascinating.'

All the other men nodded their heads, and even Halt was looking (beneath the shadow of his cowl) impressed.

Lady Pauline executed a perfect mental headpalm as a physical headpalm wouldn't be in keeping with the whole "aura of calmness and unflappableness" thing that diplomats have going.

Chef Chubby grunted, a little disapprovingly, 'Well, at least you know the basics...'

'I'm also a grade 7 in ladle weaponry skills,' Jenny said quickly.

The chef looked at the teen in a new light, 'Oh really?' he asked, 'well, that's something then.'

'If you like, I'd be happy to demonstrate,' the girls said, warming to her theme.

Instantly the four other wards backed away to the minimum safe distance of six feet.

An expression of approval was now on the chef's face, 'Well, I don't that will be necessary...'

There was an immediate sigh of relief from those assembled.

'However, I would like to have a demonstration tomorrow,' the chef paused for a few moments, 'please report to me at seven in Pinkmont's kitchens for your training.'

A look of something close to pleasure or delight spread across Jenny's face, she even cursied a little. The other wards all exchanged amazed glances, they had never seen a grateful Jenny before.

'All righty then,' said the Baron looking relived, 'the last candidate,' he glanced at Will, 'please step forward.'

Will gulped and brushed away a few trickles of sweat which were starting to stream down his forehead, 'Hi,' he squeaked, his voice a few octaves higher than usual, 'I'm Will, my name is Will, that's what I'm called: Will.'

* * *

**Durn durn duuuurn! Hope you enjoyed that chapter, I'll have the next one up sometime soon, sorry again for the delay in updating :/**


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